The View From Planet Kerth: Finding peace in bed with an old enemy

The war is over! It’s been 12 long years, but now at last we can put the carnage behind us. Well, to be honest, there really hasn’t been all that much carnage because no actual shots were fired once the hostilities began. But now, at last, the troops can stand down.

Again, to be honest, there haven’t been all that many troops because I was the only combatant. And the enemy side never responded to my declaration of war, so we don’t need to sign a treaty or anything.

But in this age of never-ending wars, I thought it would be a good idea to declare not just a cease-fire, not just an armistice, but a total end to the war.

Peace at last, hallelujah!

It all started in 2006, when my wife dragged me to a newly opened IKEA store in our neighborhood. I was horrified by the mountain of brightly colored ice cube trays, the bins of cheap slippers, the racks of baskets and throw pillows. Stairways and levels and passageways arched overhead like a Martin Escher drawing run amok. Homey tableaus — kitchens and living rooms and bedrooms — stretched as far as the eye could see, with residents milling from one to the next, jabbering in every language imaginable, like a “Twilight Zone” binge-watch festival with no walls to separate one eerie episode from the next.

I had no other option but to declare war on Sweden for their unwarranted assault on our culture.

After all, it was bad enough that we let France get by with sending us a statue that invited humanity’s “retched refuse” to our shores. I had to draw the line at lingonberry jam cruets. The war began that day, and I swore I would never set foot inside an IKEA store ever again.

For 12 long years that war has raged. Well, it has raged quietly — but war is war. But then I spent this Labor Day weekend in Michigan with some friends, and after sleeping a peaceful night on a remarkably comfy sofa in a breezy screened porch, I asked where that magnificent furniture came from.

“IKEA,” was the answer. I shuddered at the thought that the enemy was providing me such idyllic comfort. But still, war is war, so I steeled myself against the devious Swedes and put aside any thoughts of rapprochement.

And then when I got home I looked at the old settee in the guest room at my house, and I started thinking it might be time to replace it. After all, even though it was comfortable as a sitting spot, when it folded out into a twin bed it was about as cozy as a cot at the Hanoi Hilton. And because my grandkids have been coming to spend more time at my house recently, I didn’t want them to grow up hating me for subjecting them to sleepless nights and aching backs in the morning.

So, I did what any good American patriot would do — I dashed off to Walmart. But they didn’t have anything that looked like it would get the job done.

And in the back of my mind, I couldn’t shake the memory of that wonderful sofa I had slept on in the breezy screened porch in that Michigan cottage over Labor Day weekend.

There isn’t enough room for a full sofa in my guest room, but a small, simple futon would do nicely. And who wrote the book on small, simple futons? Why, our sworn enemy, the Swedes, of course.

I declared myself a diplomatic emissary and swung into the IKEA parking lot — section C2 — where I pulled into a space among cars from Indiana, Michigan, Wisconsin, Pennsylvania, Texas, and (I swear I’m not making this up) Alaska. Yikes! The Swedes had invaded, and now all of America had been seduced by their siren Scandi-song! I ground my teeth at the thought—but I could hear that mystical futon humming softly in my ear.

Less than an hour later, with the new futon in the back of my Subaru Outback, I was on my way home. It shouldn’t have taken that long, but I lingered a while over the plate of tasty, affordable Swedish meatballs and mashed potatoes in IKEA’s clean, airy dining hall.

Once home, I pulled the old settee out of the guest room and pushed it into the sun room, where it will serve as a comfortable chair to curl into whenever I want to read a book and doze off in the sun. It will never again be folded out into a night-time torture device — the only end-of-war condition in my peace accord with Sweden.

The futon is now in place in the guest room, and my grandson spent his first night sleeping on it last night. Over waffles this morning, I asked him how he had slept.

“Awesome,” he said, and he asked me where I got his new bed.

I hesitated to tell him, mindful of what the next generation might think of old patriots who so quickly put such deep divisions behind them.

But when I showed him how his new bed could be folded back into a sofa, and he said “Awesome!” once again, I decided that maybe, just maybe, I could forgive Sweden for all its past atrocities against American culture.

And when my new lingonberry jam cruet is empty, and the grandkids ask where I can get more for their waffles, I think I’ll have to come clean about this old patriot’s shameful defection.

The author splits his time between Southwest Florida and Chicago. Not every day, though. Contact him at trkerth@yahoo.com. Why wait a whole week for your next visit to Planet Kerth? Get T.R.'s book, 'Revenge of the Sardines,' available now at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and other fine online book distributors.